


Bow

by shortcircuitify



Series: Wandering Wanderers [1]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, chronological order, spoilers?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-08-31 04:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8563606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shortcircuitify/pseuds/shortcircuitify
Summary: His knee bends, and she sees. He is no king. He watches her and he waits.A series of moments between an Empress who has lost her throne and an old god made of smoke.





	1. Beginning

His touch is almost unnoticeable at first. A wisp of smoke as her eyes shudder into dreamless sleep. The hairs on the back of her neck standing up, sending a shiver down her spine as she awakens to the nauseating rocking of the Dreadful Wale. Her breath shudders, as if she has seen something she should not.

Rain pitters against the metal siding, and she dreams of Corvo on occasion, of him trapped in stone and Delilah with her dark eyes and sleek hair. She grits her teeth, tries to think of possibilities of escape, of the easiest way to free her father and escape to Pandyssia across the waves.

It repeats in her head over and over – her father’s cry of pain and then nothing – his reaching form stuck in agony. And he is there, slowly watching, waiting. Not always, but enough to grab her attention, to make the repeated scenes awkward and strange. First it is his eyes, covered in smoke and cloud, hiding through the crowd, always on her, watching from the back of court. Dark and clear and cloudless.

A smirk appears when she next falls into slumber. His lips look soft and sarcastic, too dangerous for something so mild. He is not a member of her court, watching in amusement as the witch grabs her by the neck, chocking her until she is forced into wakefulness with nothing but the sweat on her chest the proof he was there.

His face is entrancing. Corvo’s cry rings through her ears as she watches him. He runs his thumb over his bottom lip, savoring. His face is mesmerizing – sharp edges and smooth lines, shifting and changing and yet always the same. Eyes as dark as the void. He is made of smoke, she thinks.

He speaks to her, “I know you, little Empress, daughter of Corvo.”

His lips catch her ear and she awakens. Her head is cloudy, blissfully unaware, and Meagan brews her a cup of tea for her migraine.

His hand cups her jaw, and she cannot see him, his form pressed against her back, “I knew your father once, in the bad old days.”

He is warm, his breath hot, and the nights have been long, “I never expected to see you.”

He is wistful, not upset at the idea, and yet melancholic that she would have passed this life without him, with his unseeing eyes.

“So, your Imperial Majesty,” the name has enough disdain in it, “What are you going to do about it?” And there is smoke against her back, swirling in dark ribbons.

Karnaca winds pull warm air into her tiny cabin on the waves, and that is when he appears. He is full of glory in a dark and dismal fashion, eyes never leaving her face, her lips. Stalks her like prey, waiting for his moment to pounce. He is the Outsider – king to beggars and thieves and the unfortunate. Friend of her father and made of the void.

And he watches her.

Waits for her to accept his gift, “Empress,” he says, voice deceptively soft, and he holds to her his hand, strong and calloused, marked.

His knee bends, and she sees. He is no king. He watches her and he waits.

Kisses her hand as she places it into his, savors the thumping of her wrist, for he is no king. He marks her with his brand, for those that cross her will know that she belongs to him. And that he serves her.


	2. Run and Run and Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She will return to the throne one day, with no time to chase shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry! I swear I've chosen a style for these snippets this time

The dreams change, after a time. She does not have visions of her father shifting into stone, his body trapped, hand outreaching for his only daughter. She no longer places her hand in his, the stone-cold touch making her wince.

She dreams of Jessamine occasionally, of when she was a child and her mother would comb her hair with her fingers. He frowns at those memories, Emily awakening with tears streaming down her eyes - where her mother is beside her once again, her touch soft on her cheeks.

She then dreams of Delilah for a time. The witch stalks about the void, tempered and ill, and she in turn watches and calculates, waiting for her chance to strike. Her eyes grow hard, pinpricks behind the cloth of her mask, moving in the shadows, as if she is part of the void. There is strength hidden beneath her form, tall, face soft. She is an enigma, intriguing and fascinating. He finds the more she traipses Karnaca the more she opens to him, the less he knows.

And Delilah calls to her mind, feeds her sickening whispers of family, her blood tantalizing, and yet she listens. Her heart craves her mother, her father, yet her mind clouds, swirling in confused circles, trying to understand.

Her hand smooths down his arm in these moments, eyes far and searching, for once, something he cannot provide. So he waits for her to return, turns her face towards him, and she blinks away the mist from her eyes. He pillows her in the comfort of the void, the smoke that calls for secrets surrounding her in peace. Kisses her eyes so that they may see and unsee.

And they shift again, the dreams, as the mark pulsates against her hand and she kills without spilling blood. Emily Attano is an interesting being, not quite human, not meant to be a part of the void.

She dreams of a throne. But it is not one made out of charcoal stone and whispered pleas. The one that Veray Moray and others have built for him, over years of carving bones. The throne of Dunwall sits in her mind, and she, on occasion, occupies it. Others she walks around it, her mind calm and cool as she traces its high back with her fingers. Imperial Majesty.

“Ah,” he says, and she turns to him.

“I’ve spent all my time waiting for court to be over, so I could escape into the night,” her voice is wispy, far away, long buried regrets tinging her words.

He does not reply, watches her, the way she sits, regal back straight, hands clasped tightly over her knees. The blood of the Empress runs through her veins.

“I must do better,” she is the one watching him carefully now, “I wish to.”

He grinds his jaw. The nights in Gristol are long, the air fresh from the roof of Dunwall Tower, shadows slinking over the shingles of the roofs there.

Her lips part to say something more, but she stops, stands, lean and tall and agile. Her mind sharper than the blade gifted from the scarred hands of her father. Her hand smooths over his shoulder, his arms tightened against his chest. Unseeing eyes see all.

She will return to the throne one day, with no time to chase shadows.

“As you wish, Empress.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to showcase how, unlike previous people who have received the mark, such as Vera Moray, Emily may not be so willing to devote her life to the Outsider - she has a Kingdom to run, afterall, and this might make the Outsider somewhat nervous :o


	3. Bite Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She kisses the corner of his mouth.   
> He straightens his back, staring off into the void, “You are an interesting one, Empress.”

“The void is not a place,” he tells her, staring off into its dark depths, his feet dangling before him. Below them there is nothing but smoke and clouds made of nothing, but she does not fear it. She knows if she were to fall, she would be caught.

“It’s much older and stranger than you could ever know,” it sounds like a challenge, and his head moves slightly in her direction, his cheek grazing hers.

His face is sharper than she imagined, cut edges of rock and glass. More clear than the lies that have been fed to her since the Hounds Pit Pub. Arm looped around her loosely, intimate yet not touching the small of her back as she has imagined on occasion.

He does not tell her what secrets of hers he knows, and she does not bother asking.

“It is vast,” she replies.

“It is empty,” he sounds almost bitter at the thought, his dark eyes gleaming like onyx.

Or perhaps charcoal – not as shiny, more opaque, keeper of all it sees.

The void is made of precipices, softened by the clouds that hide and cover. Hidden and in plain sight, not unlike Dunwall’s court, or the mountains she has heard of from far Pandyssia. They are silent a moment, or maybe more, and she finds comfort in the darkness. It is warm, her companion consistent in his mystery.

His shape changes, ebbing and flowing with the power of the void, yet she feels him against her side, strong and sure. It is a warm luxury. It is a reminder that, with Sokolov’s greying vision and Meagan’s bitter tides, there is a space wedged into the infinite of time that is, perhaps, meant for her.

Her breath hitches. She calls to her the mist of the void, the whispered words of the desperate and sick, shrouding her face from his view. All that is left are her eyes, bright against the darkness surrounding her. His eyes widen a touch, before the magick again dissipates, and he is left with his thumb grazing her hip.

“Perhaps it is a calling,” amusement colors her tone and her cheeks, and her lips turn into a sly smile. He has given her too many of his secrets, his smile finding itself trapped.

She kisses the corner of his mouth.

He straightens his back, staring off into the void, “You are an interesting one, Empress.”


	4. My Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karnaca is mired with shadowed corners and dark buildings, and that is where she finds him.

Karnaca is mired with shadowed corners and dark buildings, abandoned to gluttonous bloodflies and festering wounds. Drunkards stumble over dim lamps in the evening, the sun on the horizon leaving orange streaks against the boats in its harbor and narrow alleys. The darkness swallows the clay of the buildings, bright at noon and hidden past midnight.

The Howlers and Abbey fight in the streets, blood and steel flowing over the cobbled stones.

And that is where she finds him. His eyes are vibrant compared to the cool stone against his back, lips pulled in a familiar smirk. He visits and often, when provisions are low and food is needed, Meagan tired and Sokolov spitting blood, or when the black market opens its doors for her to peruse their wares.

In these corners he watches her, this game they play, who will move first. He cheats, sometimes, disappearing from her sight to appear behind her. She never tenses, open to his tricks, and he imagines what she would look like with her hair down, curling at the ends in soft waves, a dark contrast against the scarred, pale skin of her lower back.

He is surprisingly delicate, nipping her ear and smoothing his hand across her back, but never asking for more, only waiting. Watching. She struggles for breath as she captures his lips, and he is greedy for her touch, the mark on her hand a pleasant reminder, throbbing steadily. No one can see them, captured somewhere between shadows and the void, desperate for each other.

She is not quite human, too quick and agile, mind made of galaxies, and he feels the void in her veins.

He always waits, his touch delicate as she draws into hidden corners in the streets of Karnaca, or her bunk on the Dreadful Wale. A wisp of smoke on her hand, arm, cheek, waiting for her eyes to meet his, waits for her to give herself. He is a selfish god, taking and taking, not noticing the satisfied blush that colors her cheeks when he disappears to his realm once more.

She never mentions, but a tendril of smoke stays in his place, swirling around her finger, drawn to her lips and teeth. In those moments, in the dark with the moonbeams making themselves known against the planks of wood of her floor, a rare smile graces her lips. If only for a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just finished a Crack in the Slab and ohhh myyyyy I hope you are all ready for that


	5. Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He will join her in the void, but for now, he allows himself to take a deep breath.

She does not build the Outsider a shrine, nor does she intend to. She is no witch, vying for his favor and the touch of his wrist upon her jaw, just once. There are no secret corners upon the Dreadful Wale that call to him, sing to him to come upon the earth and bless whoever calls him.

He rarely, if ever, does, either way.

But in the tired moments when there are no guards chasing her tail and the moon throws Karnaca into a hazy sleep, she searches dilapidated buildings for those who once wished for the Outsider to visit them. A poor widower, the head of a gang, a guard captain abused.

She sits before each shrine, and he comes to her, called to her as he always is. Her breath is sometimes short, her eyes sometimes tired and drooping from sneaking past those who are supposed to protect her, tired and worn.

In these moments, when she is on the brink of something more, he sees the anxiety bubbling beneath her skin. But she is the Empress, and so she presses her nails into her palms until they bleed, until her knuckles are raw and white.

The shrines call to him, attached to him as he is to them, and these places draw him close to the veil that separates the greens and reds of the Empire from the purple, inky black of the void. They ground him to something he once knew, once upon a time, and so in these moments he curls his arm around her drooping waist and places the heavy weight of her head upon his shoulder.

There is red ringing her nails, the melancholic music of Karnaca snaking through the window as Paolo sits below, and he whispers into her skin possibilities. Whispers into her hair who is she, who she can become, and he feels her body press against his.

“And what if I kill him?”

“His blood will rot and turn into rats. The plague you once knew will fly, airborne, and it will infect those that wish to use it to their liking.”

She hums, and it is dangerously close to this throat.

“And if he lives? What then?” Her voice is smooth, calm.

“There is always another way to skin your enemies.”

Her legs are splayed out in front of her, twining ever slowly with his, and he watches them intently as her breathing even outs, slow and steady. Paolo will not return here for the moment, there is the calling to kill within his veins and he will not satisfy it tonight, but he will try to.

And so, he lets her lay against him for a while, watches the fluttering of her eyelashes against her cheeks. She has a scar under her cheek, caught from the stray bullet of a lucky guard. It will not heal, it will mar the pale flesh, but that is the vicious court that he was never a part of, and he finds himself staring at it.

He will join her in the void, but for now, he allows himself to take a deep breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set in the Dust District, right before a Crack in the Slab, and all of these small moments have been in order. I've moved some of the Outsider's lines around, as you can see from the last one, but I hope you all like it! :)


	6. A Slab that Cracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is frustrated that the brilliant Delilah took something of his that was supposed to be given to another. A gift he already gave, stolen and stamped.

Time flickers through her fingers like it is meant for her, bends to her will, swirls in her palm as the heart beats in her hand. He feels its drumming in his ears, thumping through his veins as she is swept into the past.

He wonders, if three years ago, if four thousand years ago, she would have placed her hand upon his head and brought mercy to him. But that was a long time ago, and he does not remember the faces that he once begged and cried to.

She flows through time like it is the wind in her sails, the whales of the void sailing smoothly through nothing.

He wonders how Jessamine feels within her own heart, forced to watch through the outside. He feels like they are inverted, the past is the future and the future is the past.

And then suddenly they are not moving through time, and she is clawing at the emptiness between the deepest corners of the void and the door to her world. _Her_ world. For she is, Imperial Majesty.

His hand grips her wrist, and she is staring up at him with eyes wide, something deep and hidden within her gaze, and he stares back in amazement, for even dear hearts cannot call him back to such a place as this.

There is something to say for her being here, in the dark crevices of the void that few are christened to discover. And perhaps in this place the shrines of his followers were also borne.

And she is here. And before her, he is laid out, prepared for the slaughter as his black blood flows out against the rock. And from this blood he was made a god.

“You are not the only one with their throat slit, Empress,” he says, and he feels the burning behind his eyes that was once so familiar.

He feels warmth against his stomach, and turns into ash, fleeing. He watches her from above, and sees it was her hand upon him. The blood is fresh against his stomach.

“This is where my life ended, and where it began again,” his voice is softer, and he does not notice her approach once again.

She smooths her palm over his cheek, “It feels older here.”

“Long before your mother’s blood ran down your palms.”

She blinks, a moment, and then, “You were not always the Outsider.”

“But my blood ran and they made me a god,” he bares his teeth, “Scared, Empress?”

She lowers her head, looking up at him through lidded eyes. He sees her eyelashes are made of smoke.

“I’ve met scarier monsters in my dreams, I think.”

He runs his tongue over his teeth, and she thinks it is a smile, perhaps.

“And now you know Delilah’s secret, worn and rough upon the waves, she found her way here,” he leans closer to her, until his breath is brushing her cheek, “And she stole part of me.”

He is frustrated that the brilliant Delilah took something of his that was supposed to be given to another. A gift he already gave, stolen and stamped.

“I don’t like it.”

Her face lights up, “I’ll get it back for you then. A prize for our efforts.” And he thinks there is still a part of her that is the young girl he used to visit at night, with whales following his wake so as not to scare her off.

Little girls are supposed to love the creatures of the ocean. She does not remember those times.

“Emily,” a first Empress, a first name to spill from his inky lips, and her lips part, perhaps in shock or joy, or both, or something else entirely that is beyond his reaches to understand or care, “It is already given.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This definitely follows the game closely, but I think it works :3


	7. red is not her color

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red is not her color.

The blue velvet of her jacket contrasts with the silver from her signet ring, shining brightly in the dim whale oil lamps lining hidden streets and alleyways. She kisses it before she sleeps each night, its shape etching a from into her finger. Her skin is ivory and smooth in the purple light of the void, as she dances between the shadows. Even as she dips her toes in Karnaca’s green waves, when the burden of a kingdom is not weighing her smile, the color plays with the darkness of her eyes.

But as with anything arrayed in a brilliant display of color, she cannot hide forever, even with the mark of the Outsider burning the back of her hand. Perhaps she has been lucky, sliding between shadows and the dark, hiding, or perhaps she has slipped, her focus fading as she draws closer and closer to the Duke’s home, Delilah’s soul bounding against her mother’s heart. The bullet grazes her hip, her blood pooling in warm waves against her side, and she is grateful she is able to flee. Guards froth at the mouth for her blood, and Jindosh is not stupid, his brilliant mind filling robots with heartless eyes and guns with bullets that dig and hold against the easy tearing of flesh.

She flees, liquid running down her hip to her ankle, mind fuzzy. She thinks she sees the void. Or perhaps the face of her father, softer and yet harder as the years’ wear on him and the memory of an Empress taken before her time. Maybe it is only now she notices the sharp edges of his jaw, teeth strained, the weariness in his eyes.

It seems only natural for her to stumble upon rocks and rotting wood to find him, then, a haven long abandoned where someone once carved whale bones and blood into runes.

He comes to her in a flurry of dust and dark smoke, and she grips her hip, darkness seeping into the corners of her vision. It seems appropriate, then.

There is a sardonic smile gracing his lips, his back turned to her, fists gripped tightly across his chest.

“No doubt you are ecstatic to be among your people again, are you not Empress? Opulence and finery dripping off the sleeves of those around you, fine drink and wine to fill your stubborn belly. You’ll fit right at home in the Duke’s party,” his words are hasty, thick and poisonous against his tongue.

A small whimper is her response, weak, heart thumping in her throat. He turns with the speed of gutter rats, and she sees his eyes widen in what she assumes is shock. She lets out a quiet breath, a torrent of air that is supposed to be a laugh, if her life was not seeping through her stained fingertips.

He approaches, in the mercurial way only he is able to, and his hand covers hers. She gasps in pain, but it is dull now, slowly fading. Perhaps he is killing her, dragging her down into the void with him. There, she thinks she might be Queen.

“Red is not your color, Empress,” his breath is agitated and sharp, eyes focused on hers even as his hand plays with the wound on her hip.

“I’ve always hated it,” is her response as the liquid dries against her clothes. His hand grips the nape of her neck, pulling her sharply up to his height.

She is not short, looming perhaps, but even he can pull her into the crook of his neck without troubles, her head turned sharply to see his features.

“Watch yourself, Empress. It would not do to die a martyr when your country hates you,” he whispers, and his lips wisps over hers, a silent agreement in the space between their lungs.


	8. Iron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And he sees, as he watches, the tears lining her eyes, streaking clean paths down her stained face, worn from her time in the Duke’s manor, the burned bed in Delilah’s rooms.

If he presses against the void in just the right places, the edges of his fingertips moving through the heavy air, he can feel what lies just beneath it, foggy and bright against his hands. It burns him, when he reaches against those thin veils, and he, for all of his knowledge, believes that simply nothing lies beneath.

Jessamine’s heart dissolves into the air, his thin hold over her gone as Delilah reshapes her heart, wicked and foul. She has probably gone to that nothingness, a rest long awaited as she sat in the void, stuck in limbo. Emily’s form is crumped on the ground, her long slender limbs bent and pulled in against herself.

He waits for her, takes a step forward, his hand hovering over her shoulder as she whips the heart across the room, a growl ripping through her throat as it slaps against the far wall, slowly sliding down until it thumps against the floor, its walls beating against the tender flesh.

She rises to her feet, hands turned into claws as she stalks Delilah’s epitaph, a wild animal lying beneath her skin as she tears it apart, tremors lining her body as she slashes books from their spines, raps her knuckles against wood and stone to bring upon it destruction.

And he sees, as he watches, the tears lining her eyes, streaking clean paths down her stained face, worn from her time in the Duke’s manor, the burned bed in Delilah’s rooms.

And for once he contains her, trapping her wings against his body as she pushes against him, tired and sown against the rushing waves of her fists. Her cry is sharp, shrill, her knuckles already bloody from her onslaught. She pushes against him, her cries insistent, but he presses his lips against the crown of her head, pulls her down until she is trapped against his body, and he waits. She is as free as the birds floating above Karnaca’s warm winds, not meant for his trappings, but he knows.

He is a god, where time is but a passing of his fingers, and so he waits, waits until she wraps her arms around his neck, grips him tightly, her breath tight and anxious, but her tears dried. She holds him close, and he wraps his own around her, pulling her tightly into his chest.

“I miss her, already,” she whispers, quiet secrets passing through her lips that he savors in his chest.

Her eyes are puffy, and she looks at him, and he stares back, her eyes deep and dark, mouth turned down into a frown that he slowly eases with his own lips.

And he thinks, in her final moments, that Jessamine was proud. So proud that she pounded against the walls of her cage, her spirit bright and screaming to the void and beyond that she loved her daughter, proud and bright, like her father was before her.

The words do not find their way to his lips, but he looks to Emily once more, and he thinks she nods, just enough for him to notice, and that will have to be his answer. She is a smart one, finding his secrets that are hidden in plain sight, in the void of his eyes.


	9. Rapunzel, Rapunzel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They would pretend, for a time.

He wonders, sometimes, what it would be like if Emily were trapped in stone and magick instead of her father. Perhaps she would be trapped here, in the void, her long limbs slowly climbing and exploring its dark edges. And he would appear before her, and for them there would be an endless time, much more to explore than the dark corners and dreams given to him now.

She would be here for months, years, slowly becoming accustomed to the smoke gathering in her wake, and every corner she turned her eyes would brighten with possibilities. Perhaps, he thinks, Corvo would go mad, blood caking his nails and power seeping into his soul at last, and he would leave Emily here with him, and then truly she would thrive in the purple and blue, her body gone but her soul here. She was always meant to be an Empress, bred from birth, and he imagines a conjured throne made of shy secrets.

Her mind is an infinite space, and within its corners there are endless possibilities that she would conjure before their eyes. He knows she dreams of Pandyssia, and in his realm he would show to her its strange creatures and foreign trees, beautiful and odd. She would gasp, her eyes alive, and he would be able to pretend she did not remember her own past, like his. As hazy and seeped in smoke as it is now, when he thinks of it.

And in her there is still a brilliant imagination that would soar and mould the void to her liking – there would be pirate ships trailing her wake as she travels the sea, whales skipping along the horizon for her to conquer. There are times when she laughs, hearty and full, shallow and sweet, and he simply watches. Sometimes he himself will feel a smirk tugging his lips. She will fight against legendary assassins and goblins, feel the cool breeze of the ocean soaking her tunic.

But he knows, deep down, that there is a small part of her, buried deep within her own heart, that still believes in the fairy tales Callista would sometimes read to her before she went to bed, in the Hounds Pit Pub. And so he builds for her grand ballrooms and dresses her up in lengthy silk, and they pretend, for a time.

Perhaps he would build her a grand tower, and she, trapped at the top. And from there she would see the endless expanse of the void, waiting to be shaped, a kingdom unto itself, and he would watch her from far below, dressed in shining armor, neck craned to see her long neck and smoky eyes.

There would be dragons, creatures far less real and less frightening to the Empress of the Isles than her own shadow, and he would be there to conquer and lavish. He would not be saving her, not really, but they would pretend, for a time.

He would brush her hair out of her face, and she would smile without the constraints of an Empire wiring it down into pretty creases and lines. He cannot imagine what it would look like, but he tries nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was feeling more mushy today, so here you gooooo
> 
> Hope this still fits with everything :)


	10. there are never whales in her dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Pandyssia is over the horizon,” he whispers, breath sharp.

Her nails are bitten short, uneven and scratching against her palms. Her footsteps echo over Dunwall Tower, and before her lies a town in ashes, sky a sickly green, shrouding the oceans beyond in a cloud of pestilence.

She leans over the edge, mind muddled, the drop far and hidden from view. It is foreign, this place, although she has grown up here, knows the dips and falls of the old masonry like the back of her hand.

He presses against her back, form solid and reassuring. Delilah lays at their backs, and he places his hands over hers, breath warm against her neck. She sighs, heavily, imagines his dark gaze upon her sallow face. It is harder, the closer she draws to Delilah, her spirit thumping heavily against her palm.

“You know,” he drawls, his voice a dark promise.

She tries turning to face him, but he presses her tightly against the balustrade, forcing her to look down, the drop long.

“Pandyssia is over the horizon,” he whispers, breath sharp.

She can almost imagine it, in her mind, the exotic trees and clear blue water. It is like a dream, covered in smoke and fog.

“I can take you there,” his hand traces her arm, reverent in his touch. And there is so much more in his voice, a hidden strain that is almost unnoticeable, as the blood rushes to her head.

But she notices. Understands the way his palm splays against her stomach, the wisps of the void surrounding her. It would not be difficult to surrender, her body tired and aching, to fly above Dunwall, the Outsider there to ease her fall.

It is tempting, to live among foreign trees, the sand pressing between her toes. To live among purple and black shadows, a realm made of dull corners.

But behind her, her father is trapped in stone. Throne mottled and desecrated, and she cannot leave him again, her heart aching to see his face once more.

She pushes back, can feel the disappointment in his released breath, the way his hand lingers on her own, where his mark still holds. Before he can pull away she wraps her hand around his wrist, hand cupping his jaw as she captures his lips. Her fierce is kiss, possessive. It is only fair to mark him in kind, if he is to tempt her with faraway wishes.

“In another life, perhaps,” where the whales would carry her away.

He smirks, finger tracing the scar grazing her cheek, “Delilah awaits.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is kind of shorter, I've been trying to think of a little something for them before confronting Delilah. I hoped you all liked it! :)


	11. beginning of the end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is work to be done, Empires to recover.

There is a thin veil between the nothingness that has swallowed her mother, and will do the same to her father, and the void. Sometimes, when he is walking across its stoney steps he will press against the nothing. It burns his skin, and he wonders what it would feel like to truly return there.

Emily is mortal, body made of flesh, soul trapped by bones. But she does not have to be. But some part of him knows that Emily would not be satisfied with this realm of shadows, and she would prefer to return to nothingness one day.

Her feet are leads, dragging her across her room to the balcony. Dunwall sits below, Delilah’s grasp over it dissipating with the winds, negotiations echoing from the throne room. She has been awake all night, adrenaline thumping through her veins as the pieces to patch her Empire together were signed and stamped. Her father at her side, tears pricking his eyes and hers in turn for their reunion. Long fought and weary.

Her room is a whirlwind around her, but she cannot find the energy to lift cabinets and overturn desks, to find a semblance of order in this place. In this place, she allows herself a touch of chaos. Her eyelids droop as she watches the first colors of sunrise peek over the horizon. A whale calls in the distance. The mark on her hand looks washed out and old, in this light.

A hand grips her, trails up her arm, a familiar touch, one that she leans against, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she relaxes, his fingers playing against the nape of her neck. An old song, one she does not tire of.

Then his touch is gone, smoke curling against her cheek, tantalizing and close. She turns, leans against the railing, deep orange and red, the first traces of morning, creeping against her hair. He watches her, chin turned up, eyes flickering quickly between her features.

“Imperial Majesty,” his voice is venom, and she nods.

She runs her palm against the cool metal of railing, his jaw tightened, teeth grinding. She notices, as she does. Her eyes linger on his lips.

“There is much to do in Dunwall,” her voice is slow, too sweet.

“Dunwall is eating itself away slowly, that is nothing new,” he says, his figure approaching ever slowly, shadow long against the carpet of her room.

“I suppose not, but this time I want to fix it. I will fix it,” she whispers, his arms winding around her, gripping the railing at her back, trapping her between the ocean and the rest of the world.

She cups his jaw with her hands, “That is nothing new.”

She laughs, but it is a sad thing, “I suppose not.”

He is no suitor. He does not bow when told, made of smoke and whispers and prayed to by witches. Nobles with their hidden words mean nothing to him. His nose touches her jaw, breath hot against her neck. A time between space, when nothing is said.

“There will be no time to play in the shadows,” and his grip tightens.

“And what of after?” his voice is sharp, taunt, ready to flee.

Her eyelids flutter, a smile on her lips that makes his stomach churn unpleasantly. He has given her too many of his secrets.

“I will be so happy to see my mother,” her words are a breath, a sigh caught on the wind, and it makes him shudder, his back stiff.

“I will not linger where I am not wanted.”

She laughs, bitter, “That is not the problem.”

He stares at her a moment, the sky growing ever brighter behind her back, cool purples and bright oranges. He takes her hand in his, kisses his mark, slow, the black seeping away into grey, although it still holds. A reminder, of sorts.

“Emily Kaldwin,” he lets her name slip between his lips slowly, and she wishes he would stay, if only a moment longer.

It will be hard, when her heart has been wrapped in dark smoke. And she thinks he is cruel, but not entirely, not when he is leaning closer to her, his lips a touch away from hers.

“Emily Attano,” and she sighs with his words.

“It will be difficult to forget you,” he swallows thickly, and his eyes stay on hers, his lips a soft touch against her own. It is as much a confession as ever he has given, watching as the world shifts and turns upon itself, empires falling and rising for naught.

She reaches for him, for only a moment longer, _please,_ but as the sun lifts against her back his form fades, smirk gracing his lips, until he is gone, his shadow disappearing. She sighs, the mark on the back of her hand barely visible, but if she turns it in just the right manner, in just the right light, she can see the symbol etched onto her skin.

And, for a moment, she lets herself smile. There are tears in the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill against her cheeks, for if there is anything she has learned from the world, it is that loss occurs more than miracles ever would. There is work to be done, Empires to recover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to end it here to end with the game, but I will be back with a one-shot or some continuation after this :)   
> I hope you all enjoyed this series, thank you for all of the comments and feedback, and I hope this was still in character and that you all enjoyed! Thanks for sticking around!


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